


Thread

by Tippytap



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I don't know, Loss, Scully is gone and Mulder is upset by it, how do I tag this?, set between Scully's abduction and her return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 09:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tippytap/pseuds/Tippytap
Summary: Mulder has a tendency to fall apart when he's alone.
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Thread

Slow, sardonic smiles.

Bland, brutal humor, and a keen mind he hid behind a lazy cat's face.

That was himself.

He didn't get ruffled.

He didn't shout.

And he most certainly didn't choke his suspects-slash-witnesses.

He methodically worked his way through the problems set before him. And if his methods were quirky, so be it. They usually achieved the desired results.

But now she was gone.

Really gone.

And he was imploding.

He was racing at a million miles an hour, going over possibilities, and conspiracies, and plans.

He was a rocket, running out of control, about to tear himself to shreds on the launchpad.

He was violent, unpredictable, and angry.

He was afraid.

And he was lost.

More than he had ever yet been.

When they had been separated by mere work and protocols, he'd thought he'd gone crazy. And they'd spoken to each other then, found ways to see each other.

But now….

Often times people will say that the more information and understanding you have about a situation, the better you will be able to handle it and the less intimidating it will seem.

This was not one of those cases.

Because he knew.

Oh he knew.

And what an exquisite hell this knowledge was.

Because he didn't have to use his imagination to try and figure out what was happening to her, like her mother did.

He was all too aware.

Every test, every pain. Every humiliation, and indecency, and fear. He knew them all.

He'd read the reports, and talked to the witnesses. To the victims.

And none of that helped him at all.

Because that was what Scully was now.

A victim

An X-File.

And he had no way to help her.

She cried to him in his dreams. Over and over, like a message on an answering machine.

"Mulder! Mulder, I need you! I need you! Help me! Help me Mulder! Please! Please!"

Here her voice would always turn accusatory, "Why won't you help me?!"

"I don't know what to do!" He cried, guilt seeping deep, deep into him, down to his bones.

He tried to find her, but she kept slipping away from him. He would get close, so close that he almost had her. The barest touch of her fingers. He grabbed for her, and she was gone.

"Scully!"

He would always awaken then, bolting upright, adrenalin pumping, shouting out to her. With only his voice echoing back at him around an empty room.

Impartial streetlamps slanted their brittle light into his room, glinting into tears unshed. Where they waited for just the right touch, the final twist of the knife.

Mulder would then fall back heavily against the mattress and lay there, rigid. Breath stuttering and muscles tensed. Running his fingers over the tiny cross at his neck, again and again. Until he either drifted off or his alarm clock rang.

Some nights he just gave up on sleep altogether and went running.

He was well on his way to becoming his own myth, an urban legend slipping through the night, dissolved into staticky moon beams, and streaks of cold, white mist.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't so great, but I wanted to get it out.
> 
> *shrug*
> 
> Thanks for reading it.


End file.
